by George Moore
“Why, it is Esther!” said Jenny, the elder girl. “And, lorks, ain’t she grand! — quite the lady. Why, we hardly knowed ye.” And having kissed their sister circumspectly, careful not to touch the clothes they admired with their pasty fingers, they stood lost in contemplation, thrilled with consciousness of the advantage of service.
Esther took Harry, a fine little boy of four, up in her arms, and asked him if he remembered her.
“Naw, I don’t think I do. Will oo put me down?”
“But you do, Lizzie?” she said, addressing a girl of seven, whose bright red hair shone like a lamp in the gathering twilight.
“Yes, you’re my big sister; you’ve been away this year or more in service.”
“And you, Maggie, do you remember me too?”
Maggie at first seemed doubtful, but after a moment’s reflection she nodded her head vigorously.
“Come, Esther, see how Julia is getting on,” said Mrs. Saunders; “she makes her dogs nearly as fast as Jenny. She is still a bit careless in drawing the paper into the moulds. Well, just as I was speaking of it: ‘ere’s a dog with one shoulder just ‘arf the size of the other.”
“Oh, mother, I’m sure nobody’d never know the difference.”
“Wouldn’t know the difference! Just look at the hanimal! Is it natural? Sich carelessness I never seed.”
“Esther, just look at Julia’s dog,” cried Jenny, “’e ‘asn’t got no more than ‘arf a shoulder. It’s lucky mother saw it, for if the manager’d seen it he’d have found something wrong with I don’t know ’ow many more, and docked us maybe a shilling or more on the week’s work.”
Julia began to cry.
“Jenny is always down on me. She is jealous just because mother said I worked as fast as she did. If her work was overhauled—”
“There are all my dogs there on the right-hand side of the dresser — I always ‘as the right for my dogs — and if you find one there with an uneven shoulder I’ll—”
“Jennie is so fat that she likes everything like ‘erself; that’s why she stuffs so much paper into her dogs.”
It was little Ethel speaking from her corner, and her explanation of the excellence of Jenny’s dogs, given with stolid childish gravity in the interval of tearing a large sheet of brown paper, made them laugh. But in the midst of the laughter thought of her great trouble came upon Esther. Mrs. Saunders noticed this, and a look of pity came into her eyes, and to make an end of the unseemly gaiety she took Julia’s dog and told her that it must be put into the mould again. She cut the skin away, and helped to force the stiff paper over the edge of the mould.
“Now,” she said, “it is a dog; both shoulders is equal, and if it was a real dog he could walk.”
“Oh, bother!” cried Jenny, “I shan’t be able to finish my last dozen this evening. I ‘ave no more buttons for the eyes, and the black pins that Julia is a-using of for her little one won’t do for this size.”
“Won’t they give yer any at the shop? I was counting on the money they would bring to finish the week with.”
“No, we can’t get no buttons in the shop: that’s ‘ome work, they says; and even if they ‘ad them they wouldn’t let us put them in there. That’s ‘ome work they says to everything; they is a that disagreeable lot.”
“But ‘aven’t you got sixpence, mother? and I’ll run and get them.”
“No, I’ve run short.”
“But,” said Esther, “I’ll give you sixpence to get your buttons with.”
“Yes, that’s it; give us sixpence, and yer shall have it back to-morrow if you are ’ere. How long are yer up for? If not, we’ll send it.”
“I’m not going back just yet.”
“What, ‘ave yer lost yer situation?”
“No, no,” said Mrs. Saunders, “Esther ain’t well — she ‘as come up for ’er ‘ealth; take the sixpence and run along.”
“May I go too?” said Julia. “I’ve been at work since eight, and I’ve only a few more dogs to do.”
“Yes, you may go with your sister. Run along; don’t bother me any more, I’ve got to get your father’s supper.”
When Jenny and Julia had left, Esther and Mrs. Saunders could talk freely; the other children were too young to understand.
“There is times when ’e is well enough,” said Mrs. Saunders, “and others when ’e is that awful. It is ‘ard to know ’ow to get him, but ’e is to be got if we only knew ’ow. Sometimes ’tis most surprising how easy ’e do take things, and at others — well, as about that piece of steak that I was a-telling you of. Should you catch him in that humour ‘e’s as like as not to take ye by the shoulder and put you out; but if he be in a good humour ‘e’s as like as not to say, ‘Well, my gal, make yerself at ‘ome.’”
“He can but turn me out, I’ll leave yer to speak to ’im, mother.”
“I’ll do my best, but I don’t answer for nothing. A nice bit of supper do make a difference in ’im, and as ill luck will ‘ave it, I’ve nothing but a rasher, whereas if I only ‘ad a bit of steak ‘e’d brighten up the moment he clapt eyes on it and become that cheerful.”
“But, mother, if you think it will make a difference I can easily slip round to the butcher’s and — —”
“Yes, get half a pound, and when it’s nicely cooked and inside him it’ll make all the difference. That will please him. But I don’t like to see you spending your money — money that you’ll want badly.”
“It can’t be helped, mother. I shan’t be above a minute or two away, and I’ll bring back a pint of porter with the steak.”
Coming back she met Jenny and Julia, and when she told them her purchases they remarked significantly that they were now quite sure of a pleasant evening.
“When he’s done eating ‘e’ll go out to smoke his pipe with some of his chaps,” said Jenny, “and we shall have the ‘ouse to ourselves, and yer can tell us all about your situation. They keeps a butler and a footman, don’t they? They must be grand folk. And what was the footman like? Was he very handsome? I’ve ‘eard that they all is.”
“And you’ll show us yer dresses, won’t you?” said Julia. “How many ‘ave you got, and ’ow did yer manage to save up enough money to buy such beauties, if they’re all like that?”
“This dress was given to me by Miss Mary.”
“Was it? She must be a real good ‘un. I should like to go to service; I’m tired of making dogs; we have to work that ‘ard, and it nearly all goes to the public; father drinks worse than ever.”
Mrs. Saunders approved of Esther’s purchase; it was a beautiful bit of steak. The fire was raked up, and a few minutes after the meat was roasting on the gridiron. The clock continued its coarse ticking amid the rough plates on the dresser. Jenny and Julia hastened with their work, pressing the paper with nervous fingers into the moulds, calling sharply to the little group for what sized paper they required. Esther and Mrs. Saunders waited, full of apprehension, for the sound of a heavy tread in the passage. At last it came. Mrs. Saunders turned the meat, hoping that its savoury odour would greet his nostrils from afar, and that he would come to them mollified and amiable.
“Hullo, Jim; yer are ‘ome a bit earlier to-day. I’m not quite ready with yer supper.”
“I dunno that I am. Hullo, Esther! Up for the day? Smells damned nice, what you’re cooking for me, missus. What is it?”
“Bit of steak, Jim. It seems a beautiful piece. Hope it will eat tender.”
“That it will. I was afeard you would have nothing more than a rasher, and I’m that ‘ungry.”
Jim Saunders was a stout, dark man about forty. He had not shaved for some days, his face was black with beard; his moustache was cut into bristle; around his short, bull neck he wore a ragged comforter, and his blue jacket was shabby and dusty, and the trousers were worn at the heels. He threw his basket into a corner, and then himself on the rough bench nailed against the wall, and there, without speaking another word, he lay sniffing the odour of the meat like an a
nimal going to be fed. Suddenly a whiff from the beer jug came into his nostrils, and reaching out his rough hand he looked into the jug to assure himself he was not mistaken.
“What’s this?” he exclaimed; “a pint of porter! Yer are doing me pretty well this evening, I reckon. What’s up?”
“Nothing, Jim; nothing, dear, but just as Esther has come up we thought we’d try to make yer comfortable. It was Esther who fetched it; she ‘as been doing pretty well, and can afford it.”
Jim looked at Esther in a sort of vague and brutal astonishment, and feeling he must say something, and not knowing well what, he said ——
“Well, ‘ere’s to your good health!” and he took a long pull at the jug. “Where did you get this?”
“In Durham street, at the ‘Angel.’”
“I thought as much; they don’t sell stuff like this at the ‘Rose and Crown.’ Well, much obliged to yer. I shall enjoy my bit of steak now; and I see a tater in the cinders. How are you getting on, old woman — is it nearly done? Yer know I don’t like all the goodness burnt out of it.”
“It isn’t quite done yet, Jim; a few minutes more — —”
Jim sniffed in eager anticipation, and then addressed himself to Esther.
“Well, they seem to do yer pretty well down there. My word, what a toff yer are! Quite a lady…. There’s nothing like service for a girl; I’ve always said so. Eh, Jenny, wouldn’t yer like to go into service, like yer sister? Looks better, don’t it, than making toy dogs at three-and-sixpence the gross?”
“I should just think it was. I wish I could. As soon as Maggie can take my place, I mean to try.”
“It was the young lady of the ‘ouse that gave ’er that nice dress,” said Julia. “My eye! she must have been a favourite.”
At that moment Mrs. Saunders picked the steak from the gridiron, and putting it on a nice hot plate she carried it in her apron to Jim, saying, “Mind yer ‘ands, it is burning ‘ot.”
Jim fed in hungry silence, the children watching, regretting that none of them ever had suppers like that. He didn’t speak until he had put away the better part of the steak; then, after taking a long pull at the jug of beer, he said —
“I ‘aven’t enjoyed a bit of food like that this many a day; I was that beat when I came in, and it does do one good to put a piece of honest meat into one’s stomach after a ‘ard day’s work!”
Then, prompted by a sudden thought, he complimented Esther on her looks, and then, with increasing interest, inquired what kind of people she was staying with. But Esther was in no humour for conversation, and answered his questions briefly without entering into details. Her reserve only increased his curiosity, which fired up at the first mention of the race-horses.
“I scarcely know much about them. I only used to see them passing through the yard as they went to exercise on the downs. There was always a lot of talk about them in the servants’ hall, but I didn’t notice it. They were a great trouble to Mrs. Barfield — I told you, mother, that she was one of ourselves, didn’t I?”
A look of contempt passed over Jim’s face, and he said —
“We’ve quite enough talk ’ere about the Brethren; give them a rest. What about the ‘orses? Did they win any races? Yer can’t ‘ave missed ‘earing that.”
“Yes, Silver Braid won the Stewards’ Cup.”
“Silver Braid was one of your horses?”
“Yes, Mr. Barfield won thousands and thousands, everyone in Shoreham won something, and a ball for the servants was given in the Gardens.”
“And you never thought of writing to me about it! I could have ‘ad thirty to one off Bill Short. One pound ten to a bob! And yer never thought it worth while to send me the tip. I’m blowed! Girls aren’t worth a damn…. Thirty to one off Bill Short — he’d have laid it. I remember seeing the price quoted in all the papers. Thirty to one taken and hoffered. If you had told me all yer knowed I might ‘ave gone ‘alf a quid — fifteen pun to ‘alf a quid! as much as I’d earn in three months slaving eight and ten hours a day, paint-pot on ‘and about them blooming engines. Well, there’s no use crying over what’s done — sich a chance won’t come again, but something else may. What are they going to do with the ‘orse this autumn — did yer ‘ear that?”
“I think I ‘eard that he was entered for the Cambridgeshire, but if I remember rightly, Mr. Leopold — that’s the butler, not his real name, but what we call him—”
“Ah, yes; I know; after the Baron. Now what do ’e say? I reckon ’e knows. I should like to ‘ave ‘alf-an-hour’s talk with your Mr. Leopold. What do ’e say? For what ’e says, unless I’m pretty well mistaken, is worth listening to. A man wouldn’t be a-wasting ’is time in listening to ’im. What do ’e say?”
“Mr. Leopold never says much. He’s the only one the Gaffer ever confides in. ’Tis said they are as thick as thieves, so they say. Mr. Leopold was his confidential servant when the Gaffer — that’s the squire — was a bachelor.”
Jim chuckled. “Yes, I think I know what kind of man your Mr. Leopold is like. But what did ’e say about the Cambridgeshire?”
“He only laughed a little once, and said he didn’t think the ‘orse would do much good in the autumn races — no, not races, that isn’t the word.”
“Handicaps?”
“Yes, that’s it. But there’s no relying on what Mr. Leopold says — he never says what he really means. But I ‘eard William, that’s the footman—”
“What are you stopping for? What did yer ‘ear ’im say?”
“That he intends to have something on next spring.”
“Did he say any race? Did he say the City and Sub.?”
“Yes, that was the race he mentioned.”
“I thought that would be about the length and the breadth of it,” Jim said, as he took up his knife and fork. There was only a small portion of the beef-steak left, and this he ate gluttonously, and, finishing the last remaining beer, he leaned back in the happiness of repletion. He crammed tobacco into a dirty clay, with a dirtier finger-nail, and said —
“I’d be uncommon glad to ‘ear how he is getting on. When are you going back? Up for the day only?”
Esther did not answer, and Jim looked inquiringly as he reached across the table for the matches. The decisive moment had arrived, and Mrs. Saunders said —
“Esther ain’t a-going back; leastways—”
“Not going back! You don’t mean that she ain’t contented in her situation — that she ‘as—”
“Esther ain’t going back no more,” Mrs. Saunders answered, incautiously. “Look ee ’ere, Jim—”
“Out with it, old woman — no ‘umbug! What is it all about? Ain’t going back to ’er sitooation, and where she ‘as been treated like that — just look at the duds she ‘as got on.”
The evening was darkening rapidly, and the firelight flickered over the back of the toy dogs piled up on the dresser. Jim had lit his pipe, and the acrid and warm odour of quickly-burning tobacco overpowered the smell of grease and the burnt skin of the baked potato, a fragment of which remained on the plate; only the sickly flavour of drying paste was distinguishable in the reek of the short black clay which the man held firmly between his teeth. Esther sat by the fire, her hands crossed over her knees, no signs of emotion on her sullen, plump face. Mrs. Saunders stood on the other side of Esther, between her and the younger children, now quarrelling among themselves, and her face was full of fear as she watched her husband anxiously.
“Now, then, old woman, blurt it out!” he said. “What is it? Can it be the girl ‘as lost her sitooation — got the sack? Yes, I see that’s about the cut of it. Her beastly temper! So they couldn’t put up with it in the country any more than I could mesel’. Well, it’s ’er own look-out! If she can afford to chuck up a place like that, so much the better for ’er. Pity, though; she might ‘ave put me up to many a good thing.”
“It ain’t that, Jim. The girl is in trouble.”
“Wot do yer say? Esther in t
rouble? Well, that’s the best bit I’ve heard this long while. I always told ye that the religious ones were just the same as the others — a bit more hypocritical, that’s all. So she that wouldn’t ‘ave nothing to do with such as was Mrs. Dunbar ‘as got ‘erself into trouble! Well I never! But ’tis just what I always suspected. The goody-goody sort are the worst. So she ‘as got ‘erself into trouble! Well, she’ll ‘ave to get ‘erself out of it.”
“Now, Jim, dear, yer mustn’t be ‘ard on ’er; she could tell a very different story if she wished it, but yer know what she is. There she sits like a block of marble, and won’t as much as say a word in ’er own defence.”
“But I don’t want ’er to speak. I don’t care, it’s nothing to me; I only laughed because—”
“Jim, dear, it is something to all of us. What we thought was that you might let her stop ’ere till her time was come to go to the ‘orspital.”
“Ah, that’s it, is it? That was the meaning of the ‘alf-pound of steak and the pint of porter, was it. I thought there was something hup. So she wants to stop ’ere, do she? As if there wasn’t enough already! Well, I be blowed if she do! A nice thing, too; a girl can’t go away to service without coming back to her respectable ‘ome in trouble — in trouble, she calls it. Now, I won’t ‘ave it; there’s enough ’ere as it is, and another coming, worse luck. We wants no bastards ’ere…. And a nice example, too, for the other children! No, I won’t ‘ave it!”
